Donald was glad to leave New York. He gave a sigh of gratitude when the porter deposited his new Gladstone bag in his berth. His dismal hall bedroom, and O’Shanigan’s depressing office were out of his life, for a few weeks at least. He exultantly overtipped the grinning porter, and went into the smoking room for a last cigarette before turning in for the night.
There were two men seated on the long seat. Donald’s entrance apparently interrupted their conversation. One of them picked up a brightly bound mystery novel and buried himself back of it. The other busied himself clipping off the end of a black cigar with a gold cutter attached to his watch chain. Donald lit his cigarette, sat down beside them, and turned his attention to a magazine he had bought in the station. He had been reading only a few minutes when he looked up to find the man next to him studying him intently.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” the man apologized in a warm, friendly voice. “I was wondering if you were Mr. Buchanan.” He laughed at Donald’s surprise. “I knew you were going South on this train. I’m Andrew Brennan, President of Mr. Tuckerton’s bank. This is Dr. Fairfield Ames, Mr. Tuckerton’s physician, and the world’s most omnivorous reader of mysteries. We had dinner with Aaron this evening. He mentioned you then.”
“Oh, I see.” Donald shook hands with them both. “I was surprised. I’m not very well known in New York—”
The banker laughed again. Donald discovered, not long after, that Andrew Brennan used that laugh, habitually, to disguise his reactions. There was certainly nothing of mirth in it. Donald, throughout his life, never forgot the sound of its hollow cadence. It was impressed too deeply on his memory during the horrible night of the storm on Broken Heart Key—when the power plant failed, and the panther screamed in the Hammock.
“You will be well known,” Brennan said, “if you work for Aaron Tuckerton long enough.”
The three of them talked for an hour after the train started, touching on many subjects. Donald’s companions were friendly, but the boy felt they were testing him so that he might be allocated to his correct niche among the idiosyncrasies of his employer. The experience was not altogether to his liking. He sat and smoked until late, after Brennan and the doctor had excused themselves and retired.
Outside of a commonly shared urbanity, his new acquaintances represented widely divergent types, mentally as well as physically. Of the two, Donald preferred Dr. Ames. He had a quick, flashing subtlety which was totally lost on the painfully literal banker—a fact which amused the rotund little physician. During the course of conversation, Brennan had made a casual remark about the difficulty of dealing with his partner. Dr. Ames said, with obvious sarcasm, “Why, is it possible? I always thought Aaron had the heart of a child!” The bank president regarded him with dumb amazement, and replied in all seriousness, “You certainly haven’t learned much about Aaron, Fairfield, after attending him all these years.” Donald could not help grinning. He stole a look at the doctor. Ames’ intelligent black eyes were glittering with amusement, and he was shaking with silent laughter.
A great part of Andrew Brennan’s Boeotian misunderstanding was a pose, a deliberate ruse to trick his business opponents into underestimating his ability. Donald discovered the fact as he grew to know Brennan better. He also learned, four days after they had met, that part of Brennan’s blank expression was due to his left eye being glass. Ames revealed the secret, swearing, when he told Don, that Brennan was the original banker about whom the glass eye story originated.
Another of Donald’s first impressions about the banker turned out to be wrong, namely, that Brennan was careless about his clothes. It was probably implanted in Donald through having seen Brennan, for the first time, next to Dr. Ames. The roly-poly, red-cheeked doctor was an exquisite dresser. From the tips of his patent leather shoes to the part in his equally patent leather hair, he was flawless to the eye. Beside him Brennan’s dress seemed somehow awry. It was difficult to discern that Brennan tailored himself with that object in view, and that of the two, he was really the better dressed.
The trip passed agreeably enough for Don. He learned that Cornelia and Beverly Tuckerton were already on Broken Heart Key, and would probably meet the arriving guests in Key West. Brennan informed him that Aaron would come South in his private car, in which no one had ever been invited to ride.
Tuesday morning, Don and Dr. Ames were seated on the observation platform. Don was marveling at the feat of engineering which had thrown a railroad up over the ocean to connect Key West with the mainland. At Knight’s Key, the doctor pointed west over the blinding blue water.
“Broken Heart Key is not over twenty miles from here,” he told Don. “They will stop Aaron’s car here when he comes down, and Charlie will pick him up with the Wasp—their speed boat The water isn’t deep enough for the Alamo. She has to run down to Key West—about fifty miles.”
“It’s almost a dream to me,” Don told him. “You can’t understand what it means to me—warmth, comfort, decent people to talk to—”
“I think you’ll like it on Broken Heart. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.” Ames laid a hand on Don’s arm. “You haven’t had an easy time, have you? Try to enjoy yourself this winter—” The doctor stopped as if searching for the right thing to say. “I mean—in
